Page 36 of Letters From A Stalker

His eyes stay on mine. There’s something in them now that wasn't there before, but I can't identify it. It’s not pity . Thank God for that. I would probably leave if it were.

“Can you give me an example?”

I think about my call with Nanna on Sunday evening and let out a quiet breath.

“Nanna called while I was making dinner, and we were talking about the Spanish show she watches every Wednesday. Apparently a man couldn't possibly have murdered his wife because his shoes were wrong, which I'm sure makes more sense if you actually watch the show. She was telling me about it, I heard something in her voice, and I suddenly told her I was fine.”

“Had she asked?”

“No.”

“Had you been talking about your father or what happened on the bus before that?”

“No.”

“Then what did you hear in her voice?”

I stare at the dark screen of my phone for a moment. “Worry, I think.”

“Was she worried?”

“I don't know. Probably. Nanna worries if I sneeze twice during the same phone call.”

His mouth twitches, but he doesn't let the humor interrupt the question. “So you heard something that sounded like concern, and you reassured her before she had the chance to express it.”

“What does it feel like when someone worries about you?”

My first instinct is to say I don’t know, but after a week of noticing every excuse I use to avoid the real answer, even I catch this one before it leaves my mouth.

I lean farther back into the chair instead.

“Uncomfortable.”

“What part of it makes you uncomfortable?”

I exhale slowly and look toward the bookshelves behind him, where several titles are arranged in a way that suggests Kai actually uses them rather than choosing them because the spines match his office.

“It makes me feel like I've caused something.”

His brow pulls together slightly. “Caused what?”

“The worry. The problem. Whatever made them notice.”

“By hurting?”

I look back at him sharply. “That's not what I said.”

“No, it isn't,” he agrees immediately, and there’s no defensiveness in his tone. “I'm asking whether someone noticing that you're hurting makes you feel as though you've done something wrong.”

I hate how quickly irritation bubbles inside of me. Mostly because I hate the question more. There’s something profoundly unfair about the way he takes an instinct I've lived with for most of my life and shifts it slightly until I can suddenly see the shape of it from somewhere outside myself.

“I don't like being a problem.”

His expression softens, though his voice remains steady. “Having a problem and being one aren't the same thing, Julia.”

Something tightens in my throat. “I know that.”

“Do you?” The question isn't condescending.